Bread and Circuses
by DragonRider0419
Summary: Katniss and Peeta have been in a relationship since the bread incident. They have gone into the Games as genuine lovers and gotten out alive. In AU Catching Fire, though, rebellion is beginning to boil, and Katniss and Peeta must decide how much they are still willing to sacrifice for themselves, their families, and each other. Will they stay and fight, or flee together?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all! This is my second Hunger Games fic, the first one was similar but I let it die out because the responses I was getting were not substantial. So here we go, I present to you Bread and Circuses! **

**For the reader's reference, I am writing this fic as if Katniss and Peeta have been in a relationship since the bread incident. They have both still gone into the Hunger Games, and the whole thing with the berries and the star crossed lovers, the only real difference in this fic is that their love has been genuine the entire time. In this first chapter, we start off in AU Catching Fire, right after Peeta and Katniss return from the Victory Tour and Thread begins his crackdown in District 12. The plot will be sort of similar to the actual books, but I think once I reach the Mockingjay plot I'll go off on my own tangent. I really hope you enjoy this.**

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**Peeta's POV**

It's very cold today. It isn't snowing now, but it did this morning, and the street cutting through Victor's Village has a layer of the fine white powder blanketing it. I rub my hands together, hoping the friction will help keep them reasonably warm as I walk down the steps out of my house and down the road, toward the center of District 12, the town. I've been out of brown sugar for a few days now and I've decided to make a quick trip to purchase some more.

Of course, that is what I will tell anyone who asks. I don't really need brown sugar. Sure, I'm out of it, but I hardly bake anymore. No, I'm going into town to get out of my house. I've been cooped up in it for the last month or so, as winter set in, because during the winter months families here in Twelve don't visit my family's bakery. They are spending their money on what they need most right now: heat and warm clothing. Winters here are notoriously cold, and this winter is no exception. But now I have nothing to occupy my time with, so I've decided some fresh air and maybe human interaction are just the thing I need right now.

Human interaction. My thoughts immediately wander to my favorite human to interact with. But I know that Katniss has better things to do than to keep me company all day, although she does set aside time for me every week. Even though her family now lives in prosperity, she continues to hunt out in the woods; any game she manages to catch goes straight to some of the worse-off families in the District. I am proud of her compassion, but deep inside I understand that compassion is not the only thing motivating her. Guilt certainly plays a role.

Guilt I know as well. Here I live, in the poorest District in Panem, bathed in affluence gained by the slaughter of twenty two other children for the sake of entertainment. Of course I am guilty. I am rewarded for terrible crimes while they, the innocent people of District 12, continue to suffer. When the guilt becomes overwhelming I will take pocketfuls of coins and hand them out to the people I see on the street, but the relief is only temporary because I know they will remain seated in poverty regardless of how much money I throw at them.

As I pass the first few shops in the town, I wander into the square. It's rather empty, a handful of people dotting its snowy soil, heavily bundled against the cold. I walk over to a small wooden bench underneath the eave of a closed spice shop and sat down, tucking my bare hands under my arms to stay warm. I say nothing, simply observing the goings-on of the District, and let my mind wander.

Like always, my thoughts inevitably make their way to Katniss Everdeen. My wife-to-be. She's hunting right now, I imagine. _With Gale, _a voice in the back of my head reminds me, and I try to push back the bothered jealousy that accompanies his name. Of course, I know better than to overthink her activities in the woods; Katniss and I have been together since before the reaping, and I trust her. I trusted her with my own life in the arena, for God's sake.

_It's not Katniss you distrust, Peeta, _the voice chimes, and I know it is true. Gale and Katniss have known each other for longer that I have. From what Katniss has told me, they've never been involved romantically, but something seems rather intimate about spending nearly every day out in the woods for several years.

I push the thoughts out of my head and exhale, my breath swirling away from my face in the cold winter air. I stand up and prepare to leave town when I hear it.

The rumbling of something very large and mechanical is faintly permeating the air. I can hear it distantly, but with every passing second the rumbling becomes more pronounced, and I realize that whatever is producing the sound is indeed heading toward the town. Other people are looking up and turning their heads as well, and down the main road there comes a procession of enormous vehicles. They are white, rumbling, and on each of the four doors is a red Capitol seal. As they pass the shops around the town, people poke their heads out the doors and windows, stunned at the appearance of the war machines, and eventually they all come to a stop in the square.

The doors on the back of the large trucks swing open, and people in the square shout and flee as swarms of Peacekeepers flood from the vehicles, moving in groups up the smaller streets, infiltrating the town. Alarm seeps into me, and I quickly duck into the alley behind a small row of shops, hurrying through the snow as quickly as I can toward Victor's Village, although my prosthetic slows me down. Something is very wrong, and I need to find Katniss.

As I make my way out of the town, I hear the panicked screams from the eastern portion of the town, that which I know to be the Hob. I glance over my shoulder as I jog up the road, and double-take, my heart filling with dread as I see the plume of black smoke rising into the grey winter sky. I pick up my pace, turning down the street into Victor's Village, hurrying up the steps and pounding on Katniss's door three times with my clenched fist.

The door opens, and I'm not surprised when it's Prim who opens the door. She takes in my alarmed expression and promptly asks, "Peeta? Are you okay?"

"Yes, Prim- where's your sister?" I look past her into the house, but I only see Mrs. Everdeen. "There's something going on in town and it looks like trouble."

Prim frowns at me. "She went hunting with Gale," she answers, concern lacing her young voice. "They're probably back to sell their game."

Anxiety squeezes my chest. There are really only two places I'm aware of that Katniss brings her game to, and one of them is on fire right now. "You and your mother stay here, alright? I'll go find her." Before she has a chance to respond, I've turned around and taken off, back to town.

Katniss is no idiot. This much I know, having been with her for three years and friends for seven. She was no idiot when she volunteered for Prim last year at the reaping. She was no idiot when she fought for our lives in the arena. She was certainly no idiot when she pulled out the berries for the both of us. She is the strongest human being I know, and probably the smartest. But even she could not possibly know about the new influx of Peacekeepers crawling through town, looking for any excuse to assert their authority.

I hurry as discreetly as I can back down the alleys, stopping only for a moment to glimpse at the square. Capitol banners hung out front of every shop, and a pair of Peacekeepers was affixing another banner from the top of the Justice Building. Peacekeepers march through the square, the trucks parked in a menacing formation on one side of the building. At the top of the steps, in the scarlet and white uniform that District Twelve knows so well, is the Head Peacekeeper. Upon closer inspection, though, I realize that he is not Cray. I swallow hard, and turn to keep moving, when a squad of Peacekeepers moves from behind one of the trucks, in collaboration as they carry a thick black post and place it in the center of the square. One Peacekeeper rivets the eight foot tall structure into the ground, and then they disperse. The Head Peacekeeper looks up from his discussion with another man to examine the structure that I now realize is a whipping post.

My heart sinks, and I hurry away from the square, bile rising in my throat.

What could have provoked the Capitol's sudden placement of the military in District Twelve? I know that Snow was not pleased with Katniss and me after our stunt in the Games, but we have done remarkably well with keeping up the appearance of gratitude and romance. The cameras are at our doorstep every few weeks, and we have received no complaints from the President of Panem regarding our performance. Of course, our romance is no act, but the superficial gratitude and smiling certainly is. But the people in the Capitol eat that up, right?

I stumble out of the alley into an actual street, and bump into several people as I fight the current of fleeing citizens. I can smell the smoke in the air from the Hob, and my anxiety begins to morph into fear. I round the bend and stop in my tracks.

The Hob is engulfed in flames, Peacekeepers wielding flamethrowers standing nearby, bathing the place in liquid fire. Huddled together under the eave of a nearby shop are a dozen or so shopkeepers from the Hob, and anger flares up inside me as I watch a group of four Peacekeepers mercilessly beating them with batons. They relent after one, a woman, falls to the ground, bleeding from her mouth.

Where are you, Katniss? I want to scream the words into the burning structure, but instinct tells me she is not there. I turn around and this time follow the crowd of fleeing citizens toward the other side of town, the snow crunching underneath so many sets of shoes. _Katniss only brings her game to two places. The Hob and Cray. _

I think my heart stops when I realize it. There is no more Cray, of that I'm fairly sure. I recall the intimidating man that stood at the Justice Building, admiring the newly erected whipping post in the square, and I know that I must prevent her from going to Cray's old home. It seems there is a crackdown going on, and hunting is illegal. Why else would they target the Hob? It was the center of Twelve's black market. I move with a renewed urgency, rounding a corner when I slam directly into someone. We both stumble for a moment, and I turn to offer a brief apology when I recognize who it is.

"Gale?" I ask, but it's not really a question. I know who he is. He looks at me blankly. He's changed out of his mining gear, but coal dust still plasters his face, skin, and clothes

"What, Mellark?" he replies pointedly, taking a step toward the main street. His blank expression is melting into resentment. "What the hell is going on?"

I cut to the chase. "Where's Katniss?" I have no time or inclination to explain to him my theories of the sudden swarm of Peacekeepers. She is my priority, and I swallow back more fear knowing that she is probably also the Peacekeepers' priority.

Gale hesitates, and the resentment transforms into concern. "She's not home?"

"No."

We both stand there for a moment, silent. Frustrated with Gale, I turn and prepare to leave when he suddenly grabs my arm. "Listen, I've seen the Peacekeepers. She's got game on her, Peeta." I lock my gaze onto his, and we both exchange a mutual panic. Then we've broken into a run, Gale leading the way with his superior speed and myself following at a somewhat clumsier pace.

We need to find Katniss before they do.

**Katniss's POV**

It's a good turkey, the one I managed to shoot. I didn't get it quite in the eye, but it was a headshot nonetheless. Even Gale had praised me for my kill, and I'm sure it'll make me some decent money at the Hob or from a Peacekeeper. Especially in this weather, when livestock are emaciated and crops don't grow, not that there are even many to begin with.

I let my thoughts drift for awhile as I quietly trek back toward the District boundary. Gale is no longer with me; he had to leave early to make it home in time for his shift in the mines. I hear the mockingjays singing in the trees, and I hum to them as I walk until they fall silent and listen to me. They flit from branch to branch, following me, until the fence and my District come into sight.

The pillar of smoke rising from one section of the District is what halts me about fifteen feet from the fence. Even from here, I can see the orange tongues of flame lapping up the buildings in the eastern portion of the District quickly; everything in Twelve is covered in a layer of coal dust. And just outside the District, on the dirt road leading into town, I see a caravan of three Peacekeeper trucks, one with a turret mounted atop it, heading for the buildings.

It is also in my moment of hesitation that I hear it. The faintly distinctive hum of electricity in the fence surrounding District Twelve. Concern and suspicion build inside of me, and I look back down at the town, knowing that my mother and sister and fiancé and best friend are down there somewhere. Part of me knows that deep down, the presence of Peacekeepers is solely my fault. I mean, there had always been Peacekeepers in Twelve but they'd been nice enough. This new influx didn't have that familiarity and I knew it would quickly cause problems.

The main problem for me right now, however, is not Peacekeepers. It's the electrified fence that promised 50,000 volts to whoever is brave enough-or stupid enough-to touch it. The fence is fifteen feet tall, so jumping over it is just not going to happen. Digging a gap to slide under would take hours, and in this cold weather, the ground is likely to be frozen solid anyway. Which leaves me with only one option: climb a tree and jump.

It's risky business, even for me, and for starters there are no trees around me whose branches extend over the fence, so I sling the turkey over my shoulder and trudge my way around the fence boundary, searching for a suitable tree. I move with a sense of urgency, knowing that something in the District is going very wrong, and eventually I find a bare oak tree, with a thick branch extending five feet over and past the electrified fence. I quickly scale it and walk out onto the branch, safely past the fence now, but the drop is much higher than I'm used to. There's a layer of snow covering the ground, which is both good and bad, because it may provide a cushion but there's no telling what's underneath.

I drop my bow, arrows, and turkey down first to test the snow, and to my relief it looks like only dead grass is hiding underneath. I shiver once in the breeze and sit my bottom on the branch, letting my legs dangle twenty or so feet off the ground. I close my eyes and count to three, then slide myself off the branch.

The sleeve of my hunting jacket catches a notch on the oak tree but quickly releases, yet the catch is enough to skew my balance and alter my fall so that my left foot hits the ground before my right foot and gives out. I let out a sharp cry as something snaps audibly in my lower left leg, and I sink my hands into the snow, clenching my teeth. My ankle throbs painfully, and I know something's wrong with it. But I pull myself to my feet, picking up my kill and my bow, and begin my long limp down to the District, where the flames of the burning structure are black as ever.

When I limp into the outskirts of town I can tell that the people are shaken. Doors are shut and locked, blinds and curtains drawn, no women or children to be seen on the streets. There are some groups of men, a few of them in their mining uniforms, but most are regular shopkeepers, discussing something in low voices. I stay out of the main drag of the town, not wanting anyone to notice me or my limp. I hobble past the shops and residences, staying out of sight of the very numerous Peacekeepers, many of which I observe are hanging Capitol banners on the non-residency buildings. The seal of Panem is watching me from every direction, and I begin to feel unnerved.

I manage to limp through town without being approached by anyone, and by now my leg feels like it's on fire. It becomes so bad that I have to sit down in the snow, leaning against the back of the town's tavern to catch my breath and allow the fire to subside. I smell the smoke of the burning building in the air, and my alarm is renewed. Once the throbbing in my leg has decreased, I pull myself back to my feet and shakily continue through town. I round the corner, the smoky scent stronger now, and I plan to skirt around the back of the Hob and see if anyone there knows what is going on.

When I see it, I contain a scream of horror.

The entire market place has been engulfed in flames. All of the stands I frequent, the pottery shop, the wool shop, the thread and bead shop, the herb shop, they're all gone. Peacekeepers crawl around the smoldering remains of people's livelihoods, picking through the area for any remaining contraband. The worst of the fires have subsided by now, and I can hear the sobs of the shopkeepers, which I now see huddled together nearby, a squad of Peacekeepers surrounding them. There is a woman I faintly recognize, lying unconscious in the snow, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.

I fall to my knees, and a cry of pain slips through my lips as my injured leg protests. Two of the Peacekeepers turn in my direction, and fear overrides the pain in my leg when they point at the turkey I'm carrying. Hunting is still very much illegal. I get up as quickly as I can, but they are already running toward me. I leave the turkey in the snow, only grabbing my bow and arrows, and I run as fast as my leg allows. They are shouting orders for me to stop that I ignore, turning the corner and stumbling as my leg gives out for a moment. I recover and push on.

I don't realize where I am when I slip through the narrow gap between two buildings and spot an old dumpster pushed against the rear of the building. I throw myself prone and crawl underneath, the pebbles in the snow digging into my palms and chest as I crawl as far back as I can manage. I tuck my bow halfway underneath myself and try to calm my rapid breathing as I hear two sets of footsteps darting down the back street where I am hidden.

"Did you get a good look at her?" One of the Peacekeepers questions the other between breaths as they slow to a jog, getting nearer and nearer to where I am hiding. I hold my breath when I can see their black boots, twenty feet from the dumpster. They slow further to a brisk walk, and I can see that one of them has drawn his riot baton. I swallow silently, trembling.

"No, but she had a wild bird. I can bet I know how she got that-did you see the bow?" the other replies, out of breath. The other Peacekeeper lets out a sharp noise.

"That was a _bow? _You're _sure _it was a bow, Peterson?"

"Well what else could it be? Besides, you saw the bird. Had a hole right in the head. It had to be a bow or something."

Silence. Panic threatens to consume me.

Finally, the first Peacekeeper, the one with the baton, speaks. "Were you even _listening _to Thread's brief, you ass? That was probably Katniss Everdeen! Katniss. Everdeen. The girl Thread ordered to be monitored for illegal activity." He's practically spitting the words now. "You piece of _shit, _Peterson! You let her get off with _hunting!_"

The other Peacekeeper, Peterson, begins to walk away, his boots crunching in the snow. "Screw you, McCraley." There's disdain in his voice. Eventually, McCraley follows him, and only when I hear nothing but silence do I squirm from my spot, dragging my bow with me, and limp home as fast as I dare.


	2. Chapter 2

**Katniss's POV**

When I arrive at my house and limp up the stone steps, I can tell that something is not right. My leg is no longer on fire, but instead is completely numb, and my left foot feels like it's embedded in a piece of lead. I twist the knob and push open the door without knocking. I practically stumble inside and shut the door behind me, leaning on the wall, and I open my mouth to call out for Prim.

Then mother is right there beside me, and she yanks me in a straight posture, a pained yelp escaping my lips, and rips my bow from my hand. My mouth is still hanging open when she breathes into my ear:

"The Head Peacekeeper is in the living room with Prim and Peeta. You were out on a walk, do you understand me?" Her voice is quiet but full of forcefulness and composure. "You were just enjoying the snow. You do not hunt. Am I clear?"

I nod silently.

"Then go." She releases me and turns her head toward the living room. Her voice perks up as she feigns pleasantness. "Mr. Thread, good news. Katniss has just returned from her walk!" She shoots me a fiery glance that I did not know she was capable of. She quickly turns and shoves my bow into the coat closet before leading the way into the other room, out of the foyer. I suck in a breath, exhale, and plaster the most genuine smile I can manage onto my face, following her. I try to walk as naturally as I can.

When we enter the room, the tension is palpable. There is a fire crackling in the fireplace, and on the coffee table beside the couch is a tray with a teapot, cups, and small finger pastries on a decorative plate. My sister and fiancé are sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, looking at some sort of book that I quickly recognize as the plant book I had been adding to recently. They both look up upon my entry, and Peeta's relief is very much obvious. But he does not hold my attention for very long, because it is at that moment I notice Thread.

He is sitting in the armchair by the window, in his uniform of course, and when he sees me he rises, a forced smile plastered onto his aged face. His eyes are nearly pitch black, and when he stands I note the array of weapons on his belt: a knife, a collapsible steel baton, mace, a hammer, and lastly a menacing black whip, coiled against his outer left thigh. He approaches me, because I am frozen where I stand.

"Good evening, Miss Everdeen," he greets me, and his voice is not incredibly deep, but it bores into my conscious. This is a voice of authority. Hard to ignore or tune out.

"Peacekeeper Thread," I return quietly, and it does not escape his notice that my voice quivers ever so slightly. I shoot the briefest of glances past him to Peeta, whose smile has disappeared entirely. In fact, he and Prim have stood up. His blue eyes sparkle with panic and concern.

Thread gestures toward the couch behind him, which irritates me because this is _my _home and I don't need an invite to sit on my own furniture, but I smile politely as he turns and takes his seat back beside the window. I hold my breath as I take the six steps necessary to plant myself on the couch, and my discomfort does not escape Peeta or Prim. I can feel their eyes boring into me as I settle down, and Peeta decides to sit down next to me. Thread is busy examining his cup of tea while I get comfortable.

I swallow hard. "What do I owe the honor, Mr. Thread?" I ask as nicely as I can force out, not blinking as he raises his head and makes eye contact with me. He smiles, and I suppress a shudder.

"Miss Everdeen," he begins, setting his cup aside. "That is what you'd prefer, correct? Or is Katniss more desirable?" He doesn't wait for my response. "I was just awaiting a brief talk with you in regard to District Twelve's new policies. I am sure you've already noted the presence of extra Peacekeepers?"

"Duly," I reply pointedly, making little effort to disguise my resentment. Peeta shifts slightly beside me, and I glance at him once. He smiles, but his eyes are saying a hundred different warnings to me. _Be careful._

"I assumed as much." Thread is eyeing me knowingly. "You'll find, Miss Everdeen, that from now on your safety, as well as the safety of all District Twelve residents, will be more thoroughly guaranteed, especially now that the power has been fully restored to the boundary fences. Also, the illegal trade that has occurred in the past has been purged to allow legitimate business to thrive here. President Snow informed me that this information would..._please _you."

My stare is slowly melting into a bitter glare.

So that's why he is here. He wanted to know if I made it past his little trap. He's probably surprised to see me arrive. I hold back a burst of fear, realizing he was waiting for me to fail to return so he could detain my family and Peeta.

"It certainly does," I say robotically. There's a chance he doesn't know I was out there in the first place and I will cling to that for my family's sake. "I'm sure that the District is grateful for your work here." That ought to please him.

Thread stands, and my fear is renewed. The whip suddenly looks more intimidating. "Thank you, Miss Everdeen. I am happy to know my efforts have not been _ignored._" That is definitely aimed at me. Thread turns to my mother, who is still standing in the doorway, glued to our exchange. "Mrs. Everdeen, your hospitality is much appreciated, but I must be on my way now." He turns back to me and extends a hand. Reluctantly, I stand up and take it. His grasp is like iron.

"Good night, and tread carefully, Miss Everdeen."

I swallow and nod. He knows, then. All my doubt is erased by his choice of wording. He releases my grip, and without another word he exits my home. Only when the door shuts do I slump over on the couch and exhale in pain, reaching to remove my boot from my painfully swollen foot.

Peeta swoops in almost immediately, grabbing me firmly but gently by my shoulders to force me to look at him. Raw concern blazes in those blue eyes of his. "You're hurt," he manages to get out.

I just shake my head timidly and break eye contact with him as my mother and Prim help me remove my boot. I involuntarily let out a cry of pain as they are forced to tug my boot to get it off my swollen foot, and Peeta takes my hand in both of his, trying to soothe me. Once the boot is off, feeling starts to creep down my leg, and within a minute my foot is on fire again. Peeta pulls in a startled breath at the sight of it, but regains composure for my sake. My mother does a quick visual assessment of it.

"How did you do this?" she asks in a tone that is not motherly, but professional. She is in doctor mode right now. Peeta also waits for my reply.

"I fell," is all I manage to get out. I'm still shocked.

"How far?"

"From a tree."

Without any more questions, my mother and Prim get to work. They order Peeta to help me over to the kitchen table, and I expect him to lend me an arm for stability, but he completely lifts me from the couch and carries me over, careful not to jostle my leg. I cannot bring myself to look yet. I am not exactly good with injuries.

Prim and my mother work well together. They gently touch my foot and ankle, trying to determine what is broken and what is not, and they send Peeta outside with a bowl to scoop up some snow. The fire in my leg is agitated by their constant poking, and when my mother prods especially hard I can't contain a small shriek that sends Peeta running back inside with the bowl half-full. They cover my lower leg in the snow and once my skin is numb, they begin to wrap it.

I feel bad for Peeta's hand as they wrap my leg. He's sitting in a chair beside me, and every rotation of the bandage roll brings more cries of pain and my nails digging into the skin on his hand and forearm. Once it's wrapped completely, Prim instructs me to take a small pill she hands me. She calls it aspirin and she says it'll help with the pain. I take it, and Peeta helps me sit up.

My mother comes to stand beside me. "You fractured your fibula. Must have been a high fall. And you made it worse by walking on it."

I say nothing, still absorbing Thread's words.

"How far was it?" Peeta asks quietly, putting a hand on the small of my back.

"Twenty feet or so," I reply quietly. I elect to omit the part where I'd been pursued by Thread's new friends and lost the turkey. "Can I go to bed?"

My mother doesn't reply but nods. Prim steps forward to help me up, but Peeta insists that he assist me to my room. I don't resist or complain when he carries me up the stairs and into my room and sets me down on my bed. I ask him to leave the room for a moment while I strip down from my damp hunting clothes and into my sleepwear. Even after years of our relationship I still choose to preserve my modesty when I can.

Peeta comes back in shortly after and helps me get settled under the covers. He sits on the edge of my bed beside me and holds my hand. We sit comfortably in the silence before he finally breaks it.

"Katniss, please tell me what happened." His voice is quiet, and is more of a request than an order, which is something I appreciate about Peeta. He looks at me with a tender concern, and I am compelled to respond.

"I was just coming back with a turkey," I murmur. "I noticed the fence was on, so I found a tree that hung over it and climbed it. I fell awkwardly and felt my ankle give, but I saw the smoke and I knew something was wrong, so I came back as fast as I could." I fall silent, remembering the burning building that was once the Hob. "What happened here, Peeta? They destroyed the Hob."

Peeta shrugs, but it's not an indifferent shrug, but a defeated one. "I don't know, Katniss. I saw them come in, and then they just set it all on fire. When I couldn't find you I was worried the new Peacekeepers might have stopped you for hunting." He stops talking for a moment and stares at me intently. "Katniss, you can't hunt anymore. Not with the fence, not with your ankle, not with Thread."

Anger instinctively surges through me, and I let go of Peeta's hand. "And why the hell not?" Who is he, telling me what I can and can't do? I am Katniss, I hunt. That's just what I do. It's like telling Peeta he's not allowed to bake anymore. "Peeta, I'll hunt if I want to. To hell with Thread."

Peeta stand up, which surprises me a bit. "Katniss, did you not see the town?" he demands, and there's something in his eyes that I rarely see. Is it desperation? "They _burned the Hob. _They arrested the shop keepers. Thread even installed a gallows and a whipping post!" He's shaking his head as if he doesn't believe it himself. "Katniss, they're not happy with us. The last thing you should be doing is drawing attention to yourself."

_They're. _It doesn't take me long to realize who he's talking about. Of course, I knew that the president was more than displeased by the turn of events at the Hunger Games. Peeta and I had stolen the show, so to speak. Snow had even taken the time to warn me that my performance had caused tension in some of the Districts. Was this his way to remedy that? Peacekeepers by the dozens and harsher enforcement of the rules? Did he think that would put out the girl on fire?

"I won't, Peeta," I growl back, but my anger is not directed at him. In fact, he's rather logical. I would be doing myself a favor by sticking to the rules and staying out of the spotlight. Especially with Thread's appearance tonight. "It's just so wrong. Those people at the Hob... that was their livelihood that got burned to the ground."

"I know," Peeta agrees, and his voice is softer now. He leans down and kisses my forehead tenderly. "But District Twelve has seen worse. Trust me, if you make a scene he'll just take it out on them. Lay low for a few weeks. Besides," he says, glancing at my mangled leg. "You should be off your feet for a while anyway. Please be more careful, Katniss. For me."

I look up at him. He's such a moderate. He picks his battles well, and he has an innate wisdom that I admire. "Okay," I murmur in response, followed by a yawn.

"You should rest," Peeta suggests kindly, stroking my hair. It's still in a braid, and realizing this, he pulls out the elastic and gently runs his fingers through the tangled mess, undoing the simple weave. He helps me get tucked in so I don't jostle my injury, and pulls the covers up so I'm bundled comfortably. He turns off the light on my nightstand and begins to slink away toward the door, and I'm suddenly hit by a pang of longing.

"Peeta?" I pipe up quietly, almost meekly, as if I'm ashamed of calling him back. I sometimes hate the feeling of weakness, of wanting another person who is free to deny you. He stops and turns to face me, although I can't make out his expression in the darkness. "Can you stay for a while?"

"Are you sure?" he asks, polite as always. It's not like we've never shared a bed. We have, more times than I could count, especially after the Games and the Victory Tour, when my nightmares had become more powerful. Before the reaping, my nightmares were few and far between, but Peeta still came over from time to time for the companionship. That was just the nature of our relationship. Of course it had changed after the Games; if anything, we'd become closer. But it had been a few weeks since we'd shared a bed and I appreciate his consideration.

"Absolutely," I reply with a smile. I'm feeling groggy, likely from the pill Prim had given me. Peeta walks over to the other side of my bed and takes a moment to remove his prosthetic before sliding into bed next to me. He puts his arm around me but nothing more. I rest my head in the crook of his neck, my cheek on his chest, and close my eyes. I think he whispers something to me, but I don't catch it because a wave of exhaustion overcomes me and I succumb to sleep.

**Peeta's POV**

The next two weeks go by without an incident. Thread and his Peacekeepers had called a District meeting the day after the Hob was burned down and had an official Reading of the Law. Most of it was old news to myself and Katniss, but curfew was new, and the punishments were severe. I could feel the fury radiating from my fiancée as Thread detailed the specific punishments for specific infractions.

Thankfully, the people of District Twelve were obedient, and after about a week, things were relatively normal. It seems the entire community had come together to help mend the broken lives of previous Hob shopkeepers. Thread's threats never materialized because there were no violations of the law. To be honest, I'm surprised that Katniss has managed to go so long without hunting. But she's been spending her time with me, and that makes me happy. We've worked on the plant book together, I've taught her some of the basics of baking, and she's showed me how to set a simple snare. But I'm worried that her patience is running thin. Her leg is nearly walkable and that means she'll be independent again.

I sit in my house in a chair beside my fireplace. It's become our main rendezvous for our time-burning. I am drawing on my sketchpad and Katniss is on the floor, a pile of feathers, an array of sticks, and small metal pieces strewn on the floor. She's making arrows. For a moment, I stop drawing and simply watch her work. She's examining the pieces of wood in front of her, and it seems she's stuck between two. They're both perfectly straight and they don't have a mark on them; they're a few feet in length and no thicker than my pinkie finger. After a minute or so of deliberation, she decides on the one in her right hand and sets the other one back in the pile.

I resume my drawing, slightly perturbed by her choice of activity. She's stayed clear of the woods for over three weeks now and I can tell it's getting to her. Just the other day I caught her cleaning her hunting boots, and when I'd approached her she just shrugged. I think she wants to go back out, and I can't say I blame her, but the worry returns as I recall her last escapade and the injury it brought forth.

I feel no shame in admitting that I am protective of Katniss Everdeen. I am also the first to admit that she out of all people is the one who needs the least protection. She's been feeding her family since she was just a child. She is brave and resilient in a way I cannot even comprehend. Maybe that's why I fell for her when she sang. And she'd rubbed off on me enough that I'd mustered the bravery to talk to her the day after the bread incident. We'd been close, and after seeing her starving it had stirred a protectiveness in me that I hadn't known I possessed. Getting to know Katniss nurtured my protective side, and the Hunger Games had tested it. Never had I known greater fear. Coming home to Twelve was a miracle, and I appreciate her all the more for it. Her injury awoke my protectiveness.

After a half hour of silence, I set down my pencil to study my work. It is Katniss, like always. I have captured this moment. She lays on the floor constructing arrows. Every detail is there, and she is stunning, but paper never seems to do her proper justice. She looks up at me and stands, still a little wobbly, so I turn the picture toward her to see. She smiles.

"Peeta, that looks very nice," she compliments, and I thank her quietly. I crave her compliments more than anyone else's. They give me validation. She stays standing, bending down to pick up the two arrows she's managed to finish. She looks up at me. "I'm tired. You wouldn't mind if I went home, would you? I think I'll take a nap."

I give her a quizzical look. "Katniss, it's not even noon yet. How are you tired?" I set my drawing down with my pencil and stand up, eye level with her.

"I just am," she replies, and her tone is almost indignant. She gathers her extra supplies and limps toward my front door. She can walk on her leg, but that's about all she can manage at this point. I quickly catch up to her and open the door for her.

"Then at least let me walk you home," I compromise, although I'm slightly suspicious. But I don't show it because I trust Katniss. She consents without resistance and we hold hands as I guide her across the street and open her front door for her. She turns around and kisses me once on the lips before thanking me and closing the door, not allowing me to get a single word out. I stand there for a moment, crestfallen, but my intuition is flaring. I know the girl on fire too well.

She wants to go hunting.

Again, my protectiveness rises inside of me. She should know better. Thread may have been merciful these past few weeks but I know for a fact that he's been watching her. I see the Peacekeepers that walk down through Victor's Village every few days. They look at her house, her property, hell, I've even seen them checking her trash. Probably for animal remains, or any sort of incriminating evidence. Even Katniss cannot hope to escape their vigilance.

I turn from the door and cross the street back to my home. If she leaves, I'll stop her. I won't just barge into her home and assume she's about to break the law.

I wait in my home for the remainder of the day. I feel bad, sitting in my window with my sketchpad, looking up every so often to see if she's made a break for it. It's intrusive and it implies I don't trust her. I do, of course, with my life. But it isn't my life I'm worried about with her. Katniss has managed to get herself into some pretty bad situations, and with her injury still inhibiting her, my sense of caution is elevated.

Eventually, night falls, and I close my sketchpad, sure that she won't leave the house. She's told me many times that she doesn't hunt at night because that's when she can become the prey. I shiver at her statement. I stand up and place my sketchpad where it belongs on my bookshelf and decide that I've been inside for too long. Haymitch could probably use some company. Curfew begins at dark, and it's past that, but I'm walking across the street and I doubt a Peacekeeper will stop me. I throw on a jacket and open my door to leave, and that's when I see her.

She's opened the side window of her house, the kitchen window, and she's climbing out of it. She drops her bow and arrows into the snow and follows, and I see her stumble a bit, but she makes a recovery. Then, faster than I would have imagined possible for a girl recovering from a broken ankle, she's darting off in the shadows of the empty victor's homes and toward the District boundary.

I'm after her in a heartbeat. She is too impulsive for her own good.

The fear is rising again. Thread promised that anyone caught after curfew would be shot on sight. I can't afford to call her name and tell her to stop without attracting every Peacekeeper in the vicinity. But she's remarkably fast for an injured girl and it takes my full exertion before I'm even close to her. By that time we've gone far up the hill, and the fence can't be more than a hundred yards away when I hiss:

"_Katniss, stop!"_

She whirls around, simultaneously drawing and stringing an arrow with such fluidity and speed that for a moment I'm stunned. Then I realize the arrow is trained on me. Thankfully, she does too, and immediately lowers her weapon. Her face contorts in anger.

"Go home, Peeta!" she spits as quietly as she can manage at me, glancing in every direction for any sign of Peacekeepers. "You're a _moron _for following me!"

"Oh, _I'm _the moron?" I retort, and I don't mean it hurtfully. She's not a moron, she's just impulsive. "Katniss, come on. Why are you doing this? Why can't you just come home and let it be? The Peacekeepers-"

"Oh shut _up, _Peeta," she hisses, and for once her words hurt me. Why is she so bitter? What's gotten into her? I take a step closer, testing her boundaries, but she keeps her bow pointed at the ground. "I want my life back, don't you get it? I _hate _this. Snow has taken just about everything from me. Everything but this. Just go, Peeta."

We both stand there in silence for a moment, our breath coming out in small clouds of white vapor, and without another word Katniss darts away, straight for the fence. I watch her throw her weapons over the electrified wires, then climb a pine tree not too far away, crawl out onto a branch, then carefully transfer herself to another tree whose branches intertwined with the pine's. She clambers down and retrieves her bow, and without so much as a glance in my direction, she's gone into the darkness.

* * *

I return home, defeated.

I love Katniss dearly. Ever since she was a little girl she would be elated whenever her father took her into the woods to practice her archery. She was proficient by age nine, and when her father died her skills sharpened to well beyond what I imagine professional archers must shoot like. She met her best friend in the woods. She kept her family alive from what the woods gave her. But even they betrayed her, and that's when fate brought her to my doorstep. Rather, my dumpster, but I'd noticed her long before then. We would talk at school and I'd say goodbye to her every day after class.

On days when Gale couldn't accompany her in the woods, she would spend them with me. We'd talk. She'd confide in me what she couldn't with him. I learned quickly that their relationship was completely platonic. They were solely hunting partners; they kept each other alive and their families fed. I guess in many ways I'm grateful that Katniss had Gale. By all accounts he was a decent man. Part of me resents him, because I know he had feelings for her, but I know they were unreciprocated. At least that drove him to protect her.

I remember asking Katniss on a date. We were both fourteen. She'd been incredibly confused by my proposal, but eventually agreed. It was nothing special, because both of us were poor, but I snuck some of our best rolls and a cupcake from the bakery for us to share down at the meadow. It was a little awkward, but we both enjoyed it. She knew I liked her as more than a friend, but I was very straightforward with her. If she just wanted to be friends, then that was good enough for me.

But as Gale kept getting held up elsewhere, we spent more and more time together. We forged a friendship not unlike what she and Gale had. But ours was different. It was not based on actual survival. In many ways that made us stronger. I helped her through her father's death and even managed to give her food for her family from time to time. Sometimes, she'd retreat away from me, hunting alone in the woods. Especially around the anniversary of her father's death. In fact, she hadn't spoken to me in weeks when my mother found her digging through our trash in the rain.

I wanted so badly to run over to her, pull her out of the rain, and give her a loaf of the freshest bread we had. But I couldn't. So I just dropped the bread in the fire, got a smack on the head, and threw it to her.

After that, we grew back together, but this time even closer. I'm not sure when I'd say we began our relationship but it was not long after that. She and Gale still hunted occasionally, but ever since he'd heard about our relationship he'd grown more distant from Katniss. He'd confronted me once, accused me of a whole bunch of stuff, and stormed off. Later he'd apologized but I knew he was jealous. But he was still good to Katniss so I couldn't resent him.

Then the reaping came. My heart stopped when Effie read Prim's name off the little slip. I still shudder when I think of the strangled way Katniss managed to scream her little sister's name. And whatever part of me that was still alive must've died when she said those two words. _I volunteer._

I wasn't even that shocked when my name was read. All I was worried about was Katniss.

All of these memories flit through my head as I toss and turn in bed. I've been in bed since I got home, but that must have been hours ago. I throw off the covers and sit up, glancing at the clock. It's past three in the morning and I haven't heard her door close. My window is wide open for that exact purpose. I get out of bed and walk to the window sill, parting the curtains to look outside.

It's completely silent on the street. Dark. The street lights aren't even lit anymore, probably to discourage going outside past curfew. Worry gnaws at my insides, and I curse myself silently. _This is your fault, Peeta. She was right there and you just let her go._

Knowing that sleep will continue to evade me until her return, I head downstairs and set some water on the stove to boil. Tea is calming. But as I wait, my mind wanders. Katniss in the forest. She's healing but not completely there yet. What if she runs into trouble? An animal? She can't outrun anything right now. And what about the fence? If she falls again crossing it?

And the Peacekeepers. I don't even want to think about what would happen if Katniss hopped the fence at the wrong time. But these thoughts are interrupted when the kettle whistles and I pour myself a cup of tea. I notice, then, what cup I've selected. It's a white cup, but in hand painted blue lettering are both my initials and Katniss's. The cup she'd made for my sixteenth birthday. Granted, she's no artist, but her handwriting is very nice and her steady hand is reflected by the careful lettering on the cup.

With a pang, my worry returns. I take a sip of my tea and decide it needs a little sugar, but as I'm scooping some from the sugar jar, I hear it.

It's short, and high-pitched, and it lasts for less than a second, but I unmistakably hear a sharp shriek from outside my house. I slam the mug down and sprint for the door, unlocking it and throwing it open as quickly as I can, and my stomach drops because I know it's too late. I know, because in front of me I watch a pair of Peacekeepers pick up an unconscious Katniss Everdeen from the snow and throw her into a waiting white truck, her bow and arrows scattered on the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey all. I'll be updating fairly often. At least once or twice a week. Thank you for reading, and please review! Even if it's just a happy face. It takes me a while to write these, it takes thirty seconds to leave a review. Thank you! :)**

**Peeta's POV**

I don't remember who I hit. All I remember is that I hit first.

I was really no match for the Peacekeepers, of course. They had armor and weapons and strength. The thing fueling me was not reason, though. It's hard to watch the girl you love get arrested for no good reason by cruel people. Needless to say that I was on the ground in a handful of seconds, about to have the crap beaten out of me.

The commotion naturally woke Haymitch, who appeared just in time to get the Peacekeepers off of my back and explain to them some made up garbage about how I'm a victor, I'm unstable, the whole nine yards. I hear none of it. My attention is glued to the back of the white truck. I only tune into the conversation once I hear her name.

"Can't you just leave her in my custody-?" Haymitch begins, but one of the Peacekeepers raises a hand to silence him.

"She broke state law, and will receive the appropriate punishment. Again, she will be tried in the morning, and if found guilty, her punishment will be served after." The Peacekeeper glances at me with cold eyes, but my glare must be frightening because he returns his gaze to Haymitch, who is discreetly restraining me by my wrist. "I suggest you retreat to your home, Mr. Abernathy, or I'm afraid we'll have to cite you for curfew violation. Good night to both of you." Without another word, the pair of Peacekeepers turn, one picking up Katniss's weapons, and enter the truck from both sides, and the vehicle rumbles to life, rolling down the road and away from Victor's Village.

I rip my arm away from Haymitch and turn on him, livid. "How could you just _let _them take her?" I snarl, getting so close to his face that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. It takes all of my self-discipline to not close my hands around his throat. I am so angry I am trembling.

He takes a half step backward to give himself some space. His eyes are hard as his gaze meets mine. "_Listen, _Lover Boy," he hisses. My Hunger Games nickname rubs me the wrong way, but Haymitch honestly looks intimidating so I hold my tongue. "If I'd argued with them, they would have just arrested the both of us, and then there'd be _no way _of helping her. So shut your romantic mouth and _thank _me, and then go home and wait there. We leave for the Justice Building at sunrise."

I stand there for a moment, absorbing his words, but he just shakes his head at me and turns around, headed for his own house. I stare at him until he slams the door angrily behind him, my initial rage subsiding, and I can feel it being replaced by a deep-seated anger, burning in me like coal. I too retreat to my own house, slamming the door behind me.

When I slump down onto my bed I surprise myself by bursting into tears. They are tears of anger and sadness and fear. I can't help but remember that night a few weeks ago when Thread had waited for over an hour in Katniss's house, with only myself and her family to help ease the tension. His warning had been palpable. _Tread carefully. _She hadn't heeded his warning. I feel guilty, though. A feeling I am very much acquainted with.

An overwhelming sense of failure creeps up on me. How many times have I failed Katniss? Failed to protect her? She was in the Hunger Games, and that's a big one. I did what I could to keep her safe. She still suffered many injuries in the arena but she made it out alive. And here, at home? She goes into the woods regularly, and they're full of dangerous things. Peacekeepers? Never in my life have I imagined Katniss getting arrested by Peacekeepers. The rage boils back to the surface for a moment as I recall her brief shriek of pain as they, I assumed, knocked her unconscious. No one lays hands on Katniss. Not Snow, not the Peacekeepers, not other tributes. No one.

I am a failure. I shudder, thinking of where she might be right now. My fault.

Of course, I cannot sleep. Even if I could, I have no doubt that nightmares would have pried me back into the waking world anyway. So I spend the few remaining hours of morning baking in the kitchen. It keeps my hands and mind busy until the faintest of sunlight creeps into the room, and Haymitch opens my door without preamble. To my surprise, he's dressed rather sharply, in a dress shirt and suit jacket, minus a tie.

"Wear something decent," Haymitch growls at me as I clean up the kitchen rapidly and dart upstairs to get dressed. I am on autopilot; I select a white button-down and a gray suit jacket and trousers with a black belt. I'm dressed and ready in under two minutes, and I let Haymitch lead the way out onto the street. It takes all of my discipline to ignore my fury at Thread and instead focus solely on Katniss.

When we reach the Justice Building, my resolve breaks for a fraction of a second, and I stop dead in my tracks, glaring at the banner with the Capitol seal. Haymitch continues walking for a few paces and turns when he realizes I am no longer beside him. He grabs me by my wrist and yanks me forward, his impatience tangible. "Get your head out of your ass, Peeta," he growls under his breath as we walk up the steps of the bleak building. "They'll just take it out on her."

Pain shoots through me as I realize he is, in fact, correct, and I walk with newfound purpose as we enter the main hall. Katniss's fate may depend entirely on the way we present ourselves. With a pang, I realize that neither of us have informed Katniss's family of her dilemma, but I reassure myself internally by promising to bring her home without incident. I follow Haymitch to a front desk where an older woman sits, shuffling papers and making notes, and I let Haymitch do the talking.

"We're here for Katniss Everdeen's custody," Haymitch informs the woman. She's probably sixty years old, and she wears a black dress shirt and a white skirt that reaches past her knees. "She was detained early this morning in Victor's Village, wrongfully, and I've brought sufficient bail."

The woman looks up at him from her chair, looking past her reading glasses. "Miss Everdeen was not detained, she was _arrested, _and currently no bail has been set. Her hearing is occurring as we speak, but it is closed to the public. Please have a seat; it won't be over for another hour."

I look at Haymitch incredulously. No bail? He returns my glance and looks back at the woman.

"Listen, ma'am, this isn't a normal District citizen we're talking about. Do you recognize her name?" I can hear the impatience leaking into his otherwise professional voice. Also a hint of anxiety. "Katniss Everdeen, darling of the Capitol? Hunger Games victor?"

The woman returns her attention to her paperwork. "Whoever Miss Everdeen is, sir, laws are laws. She does not receive any special exemptions." She hits a small button attached to a microphone and requests for someone to escort us to the waiting room, but before a Peacekeeper can drag us away, Haymitch leads the both of us over there. Neither of us sit.

My concern for Katniss is rising. I know what they'll charge her with. Curfew violations, trespassing, maybe poaching. I swallow hard and try not to think too hard about the Reading of the Law, but I do remember specifically the penalty for poaching. I'd specifically listened for it, knowing how it may affect Katniss.

_For poaching off Capitol lands, violators shall receive fifty lashes if over eighteen years of age, or twenty extra entries in the Reaping if under eighteen._

I fight back nausea as I consider both options. A public whipping is a brutal thing; I've only witnessed two in all of my life here in District 12. Both were on men as old as Haymitch, and both were for unannounced absences from mining shifts. Neither man had retained consciousness past thirty lashes, and both their backs had been completely transformed into unrecognizable, shredded, brutalized flesh.

But the Hunger Games are worse. I know this firsthand.

I realize I cannot bear either option. I will not permit either option to occur. I also realize that Katniss is only seventeen years old, and ineligible for the reaping. Uncertainty finds me.

"What's it going to be?" I blurt out to Haymitch suddenly. He looks at me, irritated and confused.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Her penalty," I reply, my voice turning to stone. "She's not eighteen, but she's also not eligible for the Games."

Haymitch considers this, bringing a hand to scratch the back of his head. "You've got a point there, kid. Maybe they'll let her off easy. I don't know."

* * *

**Katniss's POV**

"Katniss Everdeen, District Twelve, the court finds you guilty on one count of poaching on Capitol lands, one count of trespassing on Capitol lands, and one count of broken curfew."

My head is throbbing, and my stomach twists into a tighter knot as the man behind the podium speaks quietly into the microphone. It's really unnecessary, because it's only me, him, and two Peacekeepers, one being Thread, in the room. I press my hands against the cuffs, testing their strength for the hundredth time, but they remain steady.

"Since you are ineligible for the standard sentencing of either fifty lashes or additional entries in the annual Reaping," the man continues robotically, reading from the document in his hand, "A jury of seven Peacekeepers will convene and produce a suitable alternative, which will be served at ten o'clock this morning." He sets the papers down on the podium and locks gazes with me across the room. "Are there any questions regarding this information, Miss Everdeen?"

Yes, I want to say. This is all so wrong. I should not be punished for this. My head throbs again, where a Peacekeeper had struck it in the early hours of morning. But instead all I say is, "I want to make a phone call."

This time it's Thread who answers. "Negative. All of the District will be present for your punishment. You won't need to call them." The way he says the last statement makes me want to punch him in the face.

I glare at him with a fire I didn't think I possessed, fighting the urge to scream at him with the most colorful language I know. The other Peacekeeper stands from his seat beside Thread, approaches me, and yanks me to my feet from my elbow, guiding me rather roughly out of the hearing room and down the main hall of the Justice Building. My rage is so intense that I find myself resisting the Peacekeeper, even though the rational part of my mind is telling me that it will only make my punishment worse.

"Miss, stop pulling," he growls as I dig my heels into the floor, leaning away from his grasp on my upper arm. He rewards me with a sharp pull and I stumble forward, my ankle protesting, but I yank my arm out of his grasp and fall to my knees. He turns quickly but I try to run. To no surprise I get only three or four steps before my ankle gives out and a strong hand grabs me by my shoulders, spinning me around violently, slamming me into the wall. I let out a yelp of pain.

"_Stop. Resisting," _he snarls, shaking me once to drive the message home. I listen this time, and he escorts me with much more firmness down the hall, until we reach a wooden door with no window or peephole. He opens it with a key and slides the deadbolt open, pushes the door open, and shoves me inside ruthlessly before slamming it and locking it behind me.

I stumble upon my entry, and as I regain my balance I observe the room. It's a small square, roughly six feet by six feet, and there's a small, worn out couch against the left wall. The floor is carpeted, but covered in stains. Some are stains from drinks or oil, but I notice with a sickening feeling that a large percentage of them are bloodstains. The walls are gray concrete.

I look behind me, at the door. There's a silver knob staring at me. I am tempted to try it, knowing it's bound to be locked, but I test it anyway. Even the Capitol has its flaws. This knob doesn't budge, and I'm not surprised, so I sit down on the couch and put my fractured ankle up. It hurts from my stumble. I shiver when I realize that in only two short hours this will likely be the least of my concerns.

Laying on the couch with nothing to do allows my tired mind to drift. I don't like it when my mind leaves the control of my own discipline. I think of Peeta, firstly. How I should have listened to him. But I had to get out of there. When I'd left his house, I honestly had taken a nap at my house. But I'd woken from possibly one of the worst nightmares I've ever experienced, and I needed my woods.

My night hunt had gone surprisingly well. Out in the midnight snow, the openness had cleared my head enough to realize that my dream was, indeed, a dream. But with this realization came the clarity of thought that made me see that I was in for some serious trouble, if not from the Peacekeepers then from Peeta. He is generally tolerant of my edgy escapades, but this had certainly crossed the line. I'd shot only a rabbit, and limped my way home, my exertion paining my ankle to the point where even the icy snow couldn't soothe it. By the time I was over the fence and trudging through Victor's Village, my guard was completely down. I barely heard the truck growling behind me until the Peacekeepers were shouting at me. I'd turned, bow in hand, and they reacted naturally to my weapon, knocking me unconscious.

_Peeta. _I wonder if he's noticed I haven't come over for breakfast. I wonder if he even realized I didn't come home last night. Guilt swells up inside my chest. He is only concerned for me, while I care for no one but myself. I promise myself that I will not make this mistake again. My defiance against the Capitol has only earned me stress, pain, and suffering. I can make do without hunting until the Peacekeepers relax. I take a moment to be grateful that it's only me they've decided is worth punishing; they could have easily taken in mine, Gale's, and Peeta's family for association alone.

I sit there and dwell on how I'm a terrible person but also how the Capitol is worse for I don't even know how long. There is nothing in this room marking the passage of time. All I know is that somewhere a group of seven men are debating the best way to make an example of me.

* * *

**Haymitch's POV**

There are no refreshments in the waiting room. It makes me frustrated, but I know that even if there were alcohol in the room I would discipline myself and stay away from it. For the girl's sake if not my own. There is too much on the line for me to be getting wasted right now.

I sit in one of the lounge chairs and cross my legs, examining my fingernails. I have a habit of keeping them perfectly trimmed and clean. I don't know why. Maybe it's another distraction. Isn't that all it ever is, a _distraction? _The Games, the Peacekeepers, the starvation and cruelties faced in daily living, and even this, public punishment, they are all just wool over our eyes. But I know right now I can't afford to be thinking like this. For all I know, Katniss's life is on the line and if I go on a semi-lucid rant against the Capitol it will certainly be death for me and likely death for her also.

I can feel Bread Boy's eyes on me as I inspect my hand. I say nothing. I am just as angry as he is, I just don't show it because _one _of us has to be the middleman. I know what she means to him. She means a lot to me, too; I never imagined I'd get any kids out of the arena. Imagine my surprise when I got both. I've taken on a somewhat fatherly role to the both of them, and I'll be damned if my efforts go to waste. I've invested too much in these two to bail on them now.

"It's been almost two hours, Haymitch."

I set my hands in my lap and look up at him. I can see the layers of emotion in his face. Anger, fear, frustration, panic, and sadness. "I know. Just be patient. Can't be much longer."

I hope I can convince myself, too.

We both sit in silence for another quarter of an hour before the woman from the front desk enters the room. Peeta's on his feet before I am, and once I join the two of them, the woman begins to talk.

"Mr. Abernathy, Mr. Mellark," she says, her voice emotionless and her face expressionless. "The young woman you've come to claim custody of has officially been presented her charges against the Capitol." She opens a folder in her hands and reads off a document within. "One count each for trespassing, poaching, and breaking curfew. Her punishment will consist of thirty-five lashes in the public square, which will occur within the hour. After that, she will be transferred to your custody." The woman closes the folder and looks up at Peeta, but quickly turns her gaze to me because the look on his face must be quite frightening. "Do either of you have any questions?"

Silence. Dissenting silence follows her question. When neither of us speak after a half minute, she simply turns and walks away, leaving us standing there in the waiting room. When I glance at Peeta, he's shaking with fury. I reach out to place my hand on his shoulder, but he violently hits it aside and faces me.

"You _bastard, _Haymitch!" He spits at me, and I can visually tell he's trying not to punch me. "You didn't even put up a fight! You just _let _them-"

I take two steps to close the gap between us and grab him by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the wall of the room. "As I recall, _Peeta,"_ I growl unpleasantly. "You didn't do much either." I release him roughly and look him straight in the eye. "Too late anyway. The best we can do is hope that once she goes out they'll stop early." It even hurts me to say that. My mind is racing through all of the things I could possibly do to stop this from happening to Katniss, but I see no way out. At this point any intervention might just bring out the firing squad.

Peeta's resolve finally breaks. I can see tears in his eyes and more guilt washes over me. I've failed them both. Anything that happens to that girl will hurt him just as badly. He says nothing as I turn around and leave the waiting room, walking down the hall to the main room with the front desk. I walk straight past the woman, out the front doors of the Justice Building, down the steps, and out into the town. I even pass the square, where I see that ugly black whipping post that is a shocking contrast to the white snow on the ground. It's rather disturbing to see the lack of footprints in a twenty foot radius around the entire thing. No one's dared approach it.

I make my way straight to the tavern. I don't intend to lose my senses; I just need to dull them until this is over. I've been doing this too long as it is. I enter the dilapidated structure; there's no one in it except the tavern employee behind the counter. He recognizes me, but I don't recognize him. I sit down at the counter and order a whiskey. I feel detached, like I do in the weeks just before the Games.

When I take my first sip of the drink, my hate for alcohol returns, like it always does. I hate this stupid creation. I hate that I depend so religiously on it to take me out of this cruel thing called reality. But these feelings of anger and resentment fade, along with all my other senses, as I imbibe myself with the dangerous amber drink, and once it's done I slap some coins on the counter and exit the tavern. I am aware of where my feet are taking me, but it's a detached awareness, because the emotion isn't there.

I am going to the square.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'd like to make a shout out to JuliaAurelia, who's consistently reviewed each chapter. Thank you for being a great reader. Your kindness motivates me.**

**Katniss's POV**

When the knob turns on the door to my holding cell, I'm on my feet, despite my ankle's protest. To my surprise, it's not a Peacekeeper but a woman I'd guess is a little older than my mother, dressed in a Capitol-oriented uniform. She doesn't say anything, but hands me a bundle of material that I realize is a thin gray cotton shirt. I take it hesitantly, giving her a confused look.

"Put it on," she orders without emotion. "You've been ordered thirty-five lashes in the square. You have two minutes." Then the door is closing and she's gone.

Thirty-five lashes. So that's what this is for.

I swallow hard and feel the material with shaking fingers. I think, not of the pain I am sure will come, but of my sister, my mother. Of Peeta, and Haymitch. Gale. I realize that it is likely the whole District will be gathering in the square now, but those are the only five faces I care the slightest about. I hope with everything inside of me that they will not be required to attend because I'm not sure I can hold myself together if they're watching.

Trembling, I strip off my hunting jacket and underclothes, shivering as my bare skin is exposed to the cooler air. I slip the cotton shirt over my torso and my discomfort grows as I realize the sleeves don't go past my elbows. The whipping will be bad enough; it's close to freezing outside on top of it.

I ponder briefly if escape is possible. I quickly decide against it; I have no place to go, and plenty of family and friends who will likely be punished for it. Better to grit my teeth and deal with my punishment than push it on others. _Besides, _I tell myself internally. _Once you pass out you won't feel a thing._

Once I pass out.

I don't even attempt to struggle when the Peacekeeper comes in and affixes the cuffs around my wrists. He leads me out of the room and down the hall, to my surprise, instead of out the main doors of the Justice Building. Instead we take a corridor that I assume is adjacent to the square. We reach a black door with a clock over it; it reads 9:58. I swallow. We're early. Nevertheless, he opens the door and gives me a not-so-gentle push out into the winter sunlight.

I raise my cuffed hands to block the blinding light from my eyes, and shiver as the icy air touches my too-exposed skin. I can feel the goosebumps already. I walk down the stone path, the snow brushed to either side, the Peacekeeper maintaining a firm grip on my upper arm. Only when I notice the crowds of people lining the path do I build up the courage to raise my eyes directly ahead, ignoring the low murmurs of those watching me now.

I immediately regret doing so, because I hesitate, both my feet planted firmly into the snow. My trembling intensifies. The solid steel, black post is rather intimidating. The crowd has formed a ring around the square, and as I'm pulled through the throng of people and into the open, a hush falls over those gathered. It's then that I notice him.

Thread stands directly to the left of the post. My attention is not fixated on him, it's fixated on the coiled black whip hanging from his belt. The Peacekeeper escorting me stops me only a foot from the evil black thing driven into the snowy ground and pushes me to my knees. My shivering intensifies as the wet snow seeps through my jeans and onto my skin, and my hands and arms are almost numb as he unlocks my cuffs, only to place each of my wrists on either side of the post, securing them in place with freezing metal bands. I lean my forehead against the icy structure, and I can feel my frame quivering from a mixture of terror and coldness.

I can feel the nauseous hysteria rising inside my abdomen as the snow crinkles under the Peacekeeper's retreating feet. It's only myself and Thread in the square now. I stare directly ahead of me, at a small scratch on the whipping post, memorizing its details. I do not have the courage to raise my eyes to anyone in the crowd, because I am so scared that I may meet the eyes of someone I know. Someone who knows me. My punishment will be painful, but the shame would be a different brand of agony that I'm fairly certain would overwhelm me.

I flinch terribly when Thread begins speaking. "Ladies and gentlemen of District Twelve, prepare to bear witness to the punishment of Miss Katniss Everdeen for the poaching and trespassing on Capitol lands." For just a heartbeat, my fear is replaced by pure rage; how dare he say my name that way. But then I hear something unclip-from his belt, presumably-and the terror returns. I am shocked to notice that I am quietly hyperventilating and I try to calm myself down, to no avail.

I hear Thread walking, his boots crunching in the snow as he approaches me. He stops directly behind me, and I wince when I hear the distinctive clink of something sharp being drawn. For a moment, I fear he will just stab me, and I pray for a quick death-then, the fabric of my shirt yanks slightly against my chest as it's pulled from behind, and I hear the cotton protesting as the knife cuts through it in a jagged line down my back. My shivers intensify into small spasms as my back is consumed by the icy breeze; my shirt doesn't completely expose me, though, because my shoulders are holding up the fabric to cover my chest. Any hopes I'd had about retaining consciousness immediately disappear-I will have absolutely nothing between my skin and the barbed whip. Thread lets out a short, rough chuckle that only I can hear before pocketing the knife and walking away from me. He stops at what I'll guess is about ten paces away. I want to vomit when I hear the slithering of the whip as it uncoils at his feet. "Her punishment shall consist of thirty-five lashes," he announces, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Take heed, District Twelve. Even Victors cannot afford to break the law."

I have to say I agree with him when, without any notice, the first lash cracks itself upon the shivering skin of my back.

I know it's got barbs in it, because it doesn't just fall away from my skin once it lands. It pulls itself out of my flesh sharply, like pulling a burr off a sweater, except this pull also tears a pathetic shriek from deep inside me. It's short, and not altogether that loud, but it's so full of pain that for a moment I can't believe that I produced such a noise. But the novelty of the sound is quickly replaced by the numb, heavy feeling directly under my right shoulder blade, that transforms itself into an itchiness and eventually warps itself into a fiery burn.

"One."

I can barely process the painful sensation before I hear the whip whistling through the air again, giving me the briefest moment to collect myself before-

I cry out again, and experience the numb, then the itchiness, then the burn that amplifies the first lash. I strain against the metal ties, and they dig into my wrists, offering me lucidity for just a second. I draw in a gasping breath of air as my muscles along my spine contract in protest, my knees pressing into the dirty snow below me. I feel something hot dripping down my back, and I know what it is.

I take in the silence of the square. The only sounds are Thread's counting, his whip, and my cries. I can feel the hundreds of stares on my back as the flogging continues. Lash after lash bears down on my skin like a branding iron, and my frame spasms beyond my control after what I imagine is about the tenth or fifteenth strike. My cries are more strangled when the whip lands on a piece of skin already flayed open by a previous lash, and I'm beyond caring about the sounds coming out of my mouth.

By the twentieth lash, I wish I were dead. I feel the tears streaming down my face, I see my gasping breaths form the little white puffs in front of me, sticking to the black post I'm affixed to. My legs have long since gone numb from the snow they sit in. My back is numb, too, but every time the whip lays itself down a fire is awakened in a wrath. I want to die so badly I'd end my own life in an instant, if only I had the means to.

When the twenty-eighth lash lands, I am grateful, because for a few seconds I go unconscious.

* * *

**Peeta's POV**

When she completely slumps against the post, her entire frame supported only by the cold metal cuffs, I lose it. Whatever is left of my resolve shatters into a million fragments as I break from Haymitch's iron grip, shoving past the two or three men standing in front of me, barging into the square.

Even with my prosthetic I can run fairly fast, on a good day. But nothing has prepared me for how quickly it would carry me, across the ten yards of snow, directly into Thread.

I tackle him to the ground just as the whip cracks again, but thankfully it misses Katniss and slashes the dirty snow. Thread is taller than me, but he's also aged, and I slam him into the ground with a ferocity I did not realize I possessed. Screaming obscenities at him, I punch him with all my strength across the face, on his ribs, in his gut. _Anything _to make him suffer like she did at his hand. My knuckles protest, but I don't care; my adrenaline has given me tunnel vision, my head throbbing and heart pounding as I beat as much of the life out of Thread as I can manage.

Then he does it. He hits me hard with a fist to the gut. The air in my lungs departs, and I can't breathe for a moment, coughing, as he delivers a second crack to the side of my head. I fall off him into the snow, the pain blinding for a moment, but I don't care, because as long as he's focusing on me and not Katniss I can deal with it. He's on his feet, and I brace myself for another beating, turning away, but when I hear the click I look up and my heart sinks.

He's drawn a gun. A small one, a handgun, but I know that it could end my life faster than I could say my own name. I'm aware of Katniss's whimpers, she's saying my name, begging me to stop, but I won't. I can't. I stare down the barrel and hope that whatever happens to me here is quick and painless.

I glance over at Katniss and immediately regret it. Her back has been completely flayed open; twenty-eight bleeding gashes, all longer than my hand, greet me, shockingly red against the white ground. I shudder, and my rage returns. I lock eyes with Thread and clench my fists. I crave round two.

Then there's someone else entering the square. I expect it to be Haymitch, but when I look past Thread it is Gale I see. There's a fury on his face that I have never seen before as he absorbs the scene in front of him. He also makes the mistake of looking at Katniss, and the fury briefly warps into horror, but he returns his fury to Thread.

"What the _hell _is this?" He demands in a shaky voice, stopping a few yards from where Thread is pointing his handgun at me. I glare at Katniss's tormentor, and I get a grim satisfaction from the blood that's dripping quite profusely from his nose. Gale takes a step closer. "Well, come on! What the _hell _do you think you're doing to a fucking _seventeen year old, _asshole?"

Thread whips around and trains his pistol on Gale's chest. "Serving a penalty," he snarls back, and spits out a glob of blood. It's shockingly red in the snow. "Leave now or I swear you'll be hanging from the gallows by noon, _boy." _

Gale bravely closes the distance between himself and Thread, until the nose of the gun is pressed firmly into his chest. "Let her go." There is no plea or request in his voice. It's a demand, it's an order.

I pull myself to my feet. My abdomen is throbbing, but I don't care. Thread looks at me, then back at Gale, and I walk straight to the post, dropping to my knees beside Katniss. My hands hover over her back, and then I drop them to my sides. I'm convinced I'll just hurt her more. She's murmuring something, leaning her forehead against the post, sweat dripping down her face to mix with her tears. I stroke her face and place my hand on her arm, well away from the cuts, murmuring whatever comforts I can to her. Gale and Thread are arguing behind us, and out of the corners of my vision I can see the crowd meekly dispersing, as if they are ashamed of themselves. They absolutely should be.

I look up to where her wrists are secured to the post and am sickened to see that she's been pulling to the point where the skin has been rubbed raw. Blood drops off the black metal. I try pulling on the cuff, but it doesn't budge. "Gale," I call hoarsely. I'll need his help. But I can hear him still arguing with Thread. I lean over and kiss Katniss on the forehead once before standing and facing the two of them. Thread's handgun is still sticking Gale in the chest, and Gale hasn't moved an inch.

"Let. Her. Go."

Thread hesitates, his glare still fixated on Gale's face. I can tell he's never been challenged before. For a moment, both of them are completely silent, and then Thread pulls his pistol away and shoves it back into the holster on his belt, taking a half step back.

"You have one minute to get her and yourselves out of my sight or it'll be the firing squad," Thread spits at Gale. He bends down, blood still dripping from his nose, and picks up the whip, coiling it expertly. He turns to me, and his gaze is unforgiving. "Although I may just call them anyway." He shakes the coiled whip in my general direction, and I freeze when the blood splatters on my face and clothes.

Then he's gone, ordering a Peacekeeper in front of the Justice Building to un-cuff Katniss.

* * *

**It's the shortest chapter yet. Sorry. I needed to get this part out of the way so I can move onto the more important plotline. Thank you for reading and please leave a review on your way out. Next chapter will be much longer.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Katniss's POV**

"I wish... I wish we could leave. Leave District 12, leave Panem. Just us. We could do it."

A hand strokes my cheek gently in my semi-consciousness. I'm rather confused right now, but I'm only semi-lucid so that would explain it. I've heard this speech almost two years ago, from my best friend, on the day before my Hunger Games, and it's shocking how much has changed since then. The change I notice immediately, however, is that it is not Gale saying the words. It's Peeta.

He doesn't realize I'm awake, that much I can tell. He whispered the words so quietly I wasn't sure I heard them correctly. But I hear him more clearly now, because he lays his head beside mine, and I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. I open my eyes, which meet his loving blue ones, and let out a sigh of relief.

Bad idea. My back screams in protest, and I moan in pain, which only intensifies the burn. My eyes fill with tears and Peeta's up in a second, calling my mother and Prim to help me. When Peeta leaves my line of sight-I'm in too much pain to even lift my head-I see another man standing in the entryway of the room. I know who it is, and my lips form his name, but I can't say his name, or anything else, for that matter, without quadrupling the agony in my back, so I just lay there, the tears running down my face, onto the kitchen table I've realized I'm laying face-down on.

Gale, seeing my pain, immediately walks over and kneels down so he's eye-level with me. He takes one of my hands that's hanging limply from the table in his and gives it a friendly squeeze. "Hey, Catnip," he murmurs in a soothing voice. "How're you feeling?" He touches the back of his free hand to my forehead for a moment and draws it away, his lips forming a frown. "God, Katniss, you've got a pretty bad fever."

Something tells me the fever isn't the worst of my conditions, but I have no strength or desire to tell him that. Instead I close my eyes and try to get my tears to stop. I hear Peeta return with my mother and sister, and I can't contain a shriek when I feel my sister's fingers peel off the bandages covering my cuts. My mother and Peeta are talking in quiet voices about me, but I don't listen hard enough to make out the words because I'm fighting back more tears and cries. Eventually, Prim gently coats my back with snow, and although it burns initially, I find it soothing and cooling and slip back into unconsciousness.

* * *

It takes an entire week before I'm able to do anything on my own. And I mean anything. I even need my sister to help me to the bathroom to relieve myself, and she and Peeta help bathe me and feed me, respectively. I still won't allow him to see me intimately; I know I have nothing to fear from him, but after seeing the way Capitol girls threw themselves at the male victors, my sense of chastity had been strengthened.

I feel like a child, helpless. I can't do so much as lift an arm without the muscles in my back clenching and the scabs tearing open all over again. Prim changes my bandages twice a day until only the worst of my cuts bleed regularly, and eventually my mother declares me stable once my fever dissipates. But Peeta is still with me at practically all hours of day, tending to my needs and making sure that I don't strain myself. Even putting on socks is deemed too challenging for me to handle myself.

When Peeta's forced to leave me to help out with the bakery, it's Gale who becomes my guardian. I don't allow him to do a lot of the things Peeta does for me; it doesn't feel quite right. I'm not engaged to Gale. So I keep him at an arm's length, but our friendship remains strong, and I'm grateful for his presence that I realize has been virtually nonexistent since Peeta and I returned from our Victory Tour. He's been preoccupied in the mines and I've been absorbing in fending off Capitol media and trying to resume my pre-Games life with Peeta.

During my weeks of recovery, no Peacekeepers show up at my house. They don't bother Peeta or Haymitch either. Which surprises me, because I've expected retribution from Thread for escaping the remainder of my lashes. Maybe he has orders from Snow not to, though, because after all the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve are needed for television appearances, and Panem doesn't want to see my brutalized back. Regardless of the motives, I'm relieved that my torture at the hands of Thread is over. Regularity is finally managing to restore itself.

The weeks wear on, and I find myself regaining the strength that my injuries had stolen from me. Eventually, the snow begins to melt, and I can sense that the springtime is on its way in. I am not as confined to the house as I previously was; now, I venture outside on my own, and I take long walks around the woodsy border of the District. I keep a wide berth between myself and the humming fence, but I do my best to enjoy what little privacy I have out here on my own. Sometimes, I can hear the mockingjays singing on the other side, and I sing back. Although they listen, they don't fly over the fence and follow me like they used to.

But it's not truly spring until one evening when the snow has completely melted. My mother and Prim are out in town, getting Prim some new shoes since the snow this winter had destroyed her other pair. I'm sitting on the floor a few feet from the fireplace, my bow in my lap, and I clean the smooth wood with a rag and some special polish I'd purchased weeks ago in town. Well, this isn't _my _bow. Granted, this is the bow I'd gotten back from the Peacekeepers in the weeks after my public flogging under the condition that I pay a hefty fine. I paid it; money is really not an issue for me anymore. But my true bow, the one I've used since my father handed it down to me all those years ago, is still stashed in a canvas bag slipped inside a fallen oak tree, out in the woods. I'd never risk bringing that bow home. But since I highly doubt I'll ever see it again, I've decided this bow needs some TLC.

When I'm adjusting the bowstring to its proper tension, I hear a knock on the door. "Come in," I call, sitting up and preparing to hide my prized weapon if it was someone who shouldn't be seeing such a thing in my house. I relax when the door closes and Peeta walks into the living room. He smiles when he sees me, and I notice he's got one hand behind his back. I stand up and walk over to him. "What are you hiding there?"

"A gift. For you." He reveals what he is holding, and I smile when I see the bouquet of primroses in his hand. He's even tied a green ribbon around them, holding them together. "Happy three years, Katniss." He wraps me into a tight hug that I quickly reciprocate, and I inhale his sweet bread-and-cinnamon scent, but the guilt is already rushing through me.

I've completely forgotten.

Of course, this is stereotypical of our relationship. Peeta, always considerate, always thoughtful, always romantic. Me, aloof, forgetful, and careless. When we leave each other's arms, he notices my downtrodden expression and frowns slightly. "What's the matter, Katniss? Is something wrong?"

"I'm sorry," I admit to Peeta. "I-I totally forgot. Didn't even occur to me until now." I drop my eyes to the floor and half-turn away from him, my cheeks burning in shame. To my complete surprise, he laughs and kisses me on the cheek, trying to regain my attention.

"Katniss, come on, do you really think I'm mad at you?" So he knows I've forgotten. He gently presses the primroses into my hand, and I wrap my fingers around their stems, glancing up at him. His blue eyes sparkle with his smile. "It's not even a big deal. I only picked those because they were growing near the bakery."

I give a half-smile and walk away from him into the kitchen, grabbing a small vase from the shelf above the sink and filling it halfway with cool water before setting it on the counter and placing the flowers inside. Peeta walks over and stops opposite myself at the counter, leaning on it. He's still smiling, and this makes me feel worse. I'm supposed to be his fiancée and I can't even remember one silly date.

I meet his eyes and sigh. "Peeta, let me make it up to you. I'll try to cook dinner. You just relax, okay? You do enough for me as it is." I immediately regret my offer when he laughs again, and look away from him, flushed with embarrassment. We have a bit of an unspoken agreement that bars me from the kitchen and him from the forest. It's no surprise he's laughing at my proposal; I can barely make myself a cup of tea in the morning without getting lost.

"Are you sure, Katniss?" He asks, walking around the counter into the kitchen and hugging me from behind. He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder tenderly, waiting for my reply. In my head, I'm thinking of what on earth I know how to prepare. I've completely resolved to follow through-this is the bare minimum I owe Peeta. He's always so patient that I have a feeling he'll eat whatever I manage to concoct with a smile.

"Very sure," I reply, and I return his affections with a peck on the lips before I shoo him out and begin my preparations.

It saddens me to admit I know next to nothing about food preparation in a kitchen. I know how to skin, gut, and cook game on a spit over a fire, but scrambled eggs have me jumping through hoops. I look through the cupboards and decide on the simplest thing I can see in it: spaghetti. I've seen my mother and Prim cook it countless times. They just throw the noodles in hot water for a few minutes and drain it. I set the box of noodles on the counter and begin my search for a suitable pot. The house came supplied with such a wide variety of pots and pans that when I open the cabinet I am perplexed by my choices. I settle on a medium-sized pot with two small handles. I fill it halfway with water, set it on the burner, and twist the appropriate dial to a high setting.

I think I am doing this right.

I stand there impatiently for ten minutes, waiting for the water to boil. Twice Peeta leans in and offers to help, and both times I politely decline. I can tell he's both amused and appreciative of my efforts to be romantic. Once the water is bubbling, I pour in the noodles and use a wood spoon to push them all under the surface. I read the box and set a timer for ten minutes on the stovetop, leaving the noodles alone and beginning my search for pasta sauce. My mother does her best to make most of our meals from scratch, but she does keep jarred foods in the pantry whenever she doesn't have the energy to cook.

For me, it's not so much of a lack of energy as it is a lack of expertise. I find the marinara sauce on the back of a shelf and read the directions: _Heat over stovetop or in microwave until at desired temperature. _I elect to use the stovetop; we have a microwave, courtesy of the Capitol, but the beeping sounds it makes when food is done reminds me a little too much of the countdown clock in the arena. I find a small saucepan in the cupboard and fill it halfway with the pasta sauce, setting it over a medium heat. I glance at the pasta and notice it's stuck to the bottom of the pot; I scrape it off with the wood spoon and stir the noodles apart from one another. The heat from the stove is making my forehead damp with sweat. Cooking is a rather exhausting task.

I jump a little when the timer for the noodles goes off, and I quickly remove the pot from the heat, draining as much water as I can into the sink without taking the food with it. I realize that I've forgotten the flatware and bowls for serving, and set the pot down to retrieve both. I fill Peeta's bowl significantly more than my own; I've learned over the course of many meals shared that he's the bigger eater between the two of us. I tentatively place a stray noodle in my mouth and chew it; it's tender on the outside but a little firmer than I'd hoped in the middle. "Whatever," I say under my breath, drenching both of our servings in the warm red sauce before carrying both bowls out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Peeta's in my former spot on the floor, beside the fire. He holds my bow in his hands, his fingers tracing it gently from end to end as he admires the smoothness and color of the wood. He looks up with a smile when he hears me enter the room. I sit down beside him and hand him his dinner, and he lets out a short, warm-hearted chuckle when he sees what I've prepared. "So you survived the kitchen on your own?" He asks me teasingly, leaning over to give me an affectionate and appreciative kiss on the cheek.

I scowl at him. "At least I gave it a try," I reply, eyeing the bow in his hand as I speak. He quickly understands my discreet challenge, and his eyes glow. I take a bite of my dinner, and it's really not that bad. Certainly good enough for the two of us at the moment.

"Is that a challenge?" He asks me, his eyes sparkling. He sets down the bow gently and joins me in my eating, taking a bite.

"Yeah," I mumble through a full mouth. Effie would certainly be lecturing me on my manners if she were present, although her efforts are futile because Katniss Everdeen does not really care about her manners, especially not in her own home and especially not around her long-time boyfriend and now fiancé. Peeta narrows his eyes.

"And where do you expect me to attempt your challenge?" He further questions, and I realize he's got a bit of a point. There's no way either of us are getting into the woods anytime soon.

"I don't know," I reply, somewhat sheepishly, and for another half hour we eat our meal and have a playful exchange. It's nice...peaceful, even. In all my life I've only known hunger, fear, abandonment. In the Games, death itself. And even after, threats still hang over my head, over Peeta's and Haymitch's heads...this is the closest I have allowed myself to get to pure contentment. Being with Peeta, on our three year anniversary, helps me heal. Helps me forget. We spend the rest of the evening in each other's presence, and he stays the night, like he does a majority of most weeks, except when he has an especially early morning in store.

But tonight, it's better. I know that it will be the first night in many months that I don't wake up screaming from my nightmares.

* * *

**Peeta's POV**

As the springtime wears on, and the sun provides more and more warmth to our shabby District, I know another change is looming on the horizon of our lives.

I can sense it coming when Haymitch begins to drink profusely. Not that he doesn't drink to excess regularly, but at least he's normally lucid enough to engage in a conversation. Now he holes himself up inside of his mess of a house and drinks himself to sleep every night. And I really can't say I blame him whenever I recall his motive.

The Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games is in two months.

It will be my first time as a mentor. Katniss's too. I try not to think about it if I can help it, because I know that regardless of our tributes' capabilities, Snow will make sure that District 12 doesn't get another victor for a very long time. We won't ever be as lucky as Katniss and I were ever again. It's also going to be the first time that Capitol media really makes a scene of the star-crossed lovers since the Victory Tour. I've already disconnected the phone in Katniss's house at her request, because for the past week it's been ringing at least a half dozen times a day, and I don't blame her.

I carefully measure out the proper ingredients as I hum a tune under my breath. My mother and brothers are busy sorting through the storage room in the bakery, so I've decided to man the bread making for the time being. I don't know the words to the tune I'm humming, but I know the melody well. It's the Valley Song, the one that I've heard only a few times from Katniss. She's a gifted singer, just like her father was, but her shyness prevents even me from hearing her sing. Sometimes, when she thinks her family is out and I'm at the bakery, I'll catch her singing in the shower, but the water's sounds drown out most of the words.

I don't know what she's up to right now, come to think of it. I'd spent the night at her house, and gotten up before she did, but before I left she came down and wished me a nice day at the bakery. I'd promised to bring her back some cheese buns this evening, but I'd completely forgotten to ask her what her plans were. With a pang, I realize that for the past several days I've had almost no idea what Katniss's daily regimen consists of. I need to be more watchful of her.

I spend the rest of the day at the bakery working, and only once my mother flips the sign to "closed" do I hang up my apron, wash my hands, and walk back to my house. Normally I go straight to Katniss's, but I'm especially covered in flour today, and she won't admit it, but I know she prefers that I shower at my own house. After knowing her for so many years, her purity might be one of her most unbending qualities, one that I respect and uphold whenever I can. We've been sharing a bed since before we were reaped, and I've disciplined myself to stop any wandering hands of my own. Of course, sometimes my thoughts wander and I can't help but wish that Katniss were interested in intimacy, but I respect her wishes and assure her that I won't push anything on her until she consents. Apparently, even showering under the same roof is too intimate for her, though, and it makes me smile as I walk home.

When I turn into Victor's Village I groan. There are at least a dozen camera crews gathered outside my house, and when they notice me they burst into excited chatter, calling me over. They trill with excitement as I walk up to them, but their chatter dies into a disappointed murmur as I pass right by them and enter my residence, closing and locking the door behind me.

I shower rather quickly, because it's getting dark and curfew still hasn't been lifted, although the Peacekeepers have relaxed a bit. I throw on clean clothes and grab a loaf of bread from the kitchen before heading back across the street to Katniss's house, ignoring the crowd of Capitol faces hurling questions at me that I don't want to answer. I don't let myself in, though; this isn't my house. I knock and wait patiently, ignoring the camera flashes behind me, and I smile when my fiancée is the one to open the door and let me in. When the door shuts she gives me a kiss on the cheek, and I can feel my face flush red. She still stuns me-I am engaged to this tragically beautiful young woman.

"Hey," I greet her warmly, returning her kiss, this time on the lips. I can feel her smile against me.

"Hey yourself." She takes my hand and leads me into the living room, and we sit on the couch. Katniss leans her head on my shoulder. "My mother's on her way home now. She needed fresh beef to make stew. Sound good to you?"

"Absolutely." I meet her gray eyes, and they're beaming. "You're in a good mood," I observe pleasantly, playing with her fingers affectionately.

She smiles and gently removes her hand from mine. "Gale stopped by today."

My heart sinks, and I'm sure my expression reflects the twisting knot in my stomach. And deeper down, I feel the familiar flames of jealousy being fed. "What?" The disappointment leaking into my voice is painfully obvious.

She snorts, amused by my reaction. "Don't worry, Peeta. He just wanted to tell me that there's no more electricity in the fence." She stands up and walks over to the fireplace, and from the mantle she picks up her bow, which has gone unused since her arrest-and subsequent flogging. Seeing the thing brings back those memories, as well as memories from a certain arena, and although I'm happy that she's got her hobby back, I can't bring myself to show it.

She notices my reaction-or rather, lack of one-and her enthusiasm falls for a moment. I open my mouth, to justify myself, but the words don't come out. Concern is the only emotion I feel right now. Concern that she'll be hurt, or that the Peacekeepers will catch her again. Thread _did _promise the firing squad, and I know that there's nothing I can do to stop him if it comes to that. And the jealousy lingers. How long was Gale with her today? No, I don't want to know the answer to that.

She sets the bow back on the mantle and looks at me. "Thought you'd be happy to hear the news," she states blandly. She is disappointed, that much I can tell. I stand and produce a smile.

"I _am _happy, Katniss," I tell her sincerely. "I just don't think that's the best idea right now. The Capitol's going to want even more from us, now that the Quell is so close. The last thing you need is for them to catch you out there." She narrows her eyes.

"They won't," she asserts, taking my hand. "I just brought it up because I wanted you to go with me sometime."

Now I feel bad. "I make too much noise. You'd never catch anything before I scared it off."

"Not true," she replies with a tentative smile. "I'll teach you the basics of hunting. Walking quietly, maybe some shooting if you'd like..."

Her offer hangs in the air. Despite knowing her so well, the one place Katniss has kept entirely to herself is the woods. Well, not _entirely, _but they are still the most personal place she holds on to. She's never offered to take me out with her, and I've never asked; I'd be out of my element. In the Games, that was a different story, but then again, we weren't necessarily the hunters then. I decide to take it. One hunting trip with Katniss before our lives are again consumed by the Capitol for weeks on end.

"Okay," I consent, and I give her a gentle hug. "I'd love to. Just tell me when."

"Tomorrow morning?" She offers, her words muffled by my shoulder.

"It's a date."

The front door makes a noise as it is opened, and we release each other from our arms as Mrs. Everdeen enters the house. She's empty-handed, which strikes me as odd because hadn't she gone into town for beef? When she sees me, she smiles and greets me cordially.

"Why hello, Peeta. Katniss said you'd be coming for dinner, which is a shame because there's no beef to be found in any of the shops."

Katniss and I look at her, surprised. With the wealth our families had acquired as a result of our winning the Games, even the more expensive commodities like beef and sweets were affordable on a regular basis, and always in supply since no one else could purchase them. "Are you sure, mom?" Katniss asks, her tone conveying her surprise.

Mrs. Everdeen walks toward the kitchen. "The market owners tell me that there's an illness in the cattle these days. There hasn't been meat in any of the Districts for days," she calls over her shoulder, huffing with impatience. "So much for the stew. How does chicken sound?"

Katniss and I both answer in the affirmative, but exchange a brief, worried glance. District 10 is the cattle District. What could have happened to stop all beef production and exportation to every single District in Panem?

Neither of us want to know.

* * *

**Haymitch's POV**

The Games are only two months away, and as always, my bottle is my best friend.

But I am more reserved this year. This year will be different. Different because of that girl, the girl on fire. She's given them quite a run for their money, she has. I'm proud to be her mentor. Proud enough that I see the need to put the bottle aside from time to time and stay sober, because I know what could happen this year.

In all my years living in this God forsaken country, I've dreamed of what they're planning becoming reality. I just never thought I'd live to see it. And of course, nothing's set in stone, Snow could have the Peacekeepers execute me tomorrow if he had a mind to. That's why I live from drink to drink for most of the year. Especially this time of year. But since everything's different, I need to be different, too.

I'm surprised that she and Bread Boy are still alive, to be honest. Especially after her arrest. That seemed like the perfect time to arrange a notorious "accident." But she's still alive, he's still alive, and they're safe for the time being, because Snow can't have them killed anywhere near the Games; Panem would go nuts if the star-crossed lovers ceased to exist when they're supposed to be on television. Snow's doing my job for me, it seems. Keeping them alive. Eventually the reins will be handed back to me, but for now I think I can relax a bit.

Just a bit. One drink at a time.

**A/N: Sorry if the plot seems to be getting caught in the gears here and there. My mind kind of wanders when I write. I hope you enjoyed the fluffiness I included; things seemed a bit heavy so I thought I'd lighten up a bit. Please review! :)**


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